I would have let that special moment hang in the air, but he made a grab for me, laughing. “Come here,” he said. “We’d better get on with it, then.”
God, that was good. I almost enjoyed sex that night.
***
Cat had only just had the twins, so I said we should get ourselves over to visit. They would be my litmus test, and it was a good one, as it turned out: we arrived to what could justly be described as utter chaos. Sophie, wearing her favorite red dungarees and fairy wings, was marching up and down the length of the kitchen table performing magic tricks, most of which involved shouting Ta-da at the top of her voice while pulling random objects out of a hat. Meanwhile Cat, still in her pajamas, was sheltering in the front room with the boys, both of whom were intermittently producing the sort of intense, keening noises only a newborn with colic can effect. Lunch was a selection of random stuff pulled out of the fridge.
“Is it like this all the time?” Jamie asked, looking bemused as he picked out bits of Lego from a salad made from carrots, lettuce leaves and a tin of chickpeas.
“God, no,” Cat said. “It’s not all sunbeams and roses. Sometimes parenting can be quite hard.”
I thought I saw a quick flash of horror sweep over Jamie’s face, but later, as we sat together on their sofa, each of us holding a tiny sleeping child, he cast me a look so full of tenderness and wonder that I felt a soft wave of genuine love for him.
The universe had spoken: here was my match.
***
It was summer. We settled down easily, naturally, fluidly, almost without discussion. We visited galleries and went to the theater. We ate in tiny bistros and talked endlessly. We walked through London’s parks and lazed on the grass, sitting in puddles of golden evening sun, drinking glasses of Pearl River wine, Jamie’s head bent toward mine. When I was on my own, I felt like singing the entire time. I smiled at strangers on the tube.
Even better, when my temporary contract came to an end and there were no more limbs to paint, Fen asked me to stay on. “Not so much as a prop-maker,” he said. “More as an assistant, a co-worker. I can’t pay a huge salary, but it’s a permanent job offer if you want it. I need somebody who can deal with people. I am aware,” he said with a grimace, “that part of the job is not exactly my forte.”
Everything was falling into place. Within months we were talking about hunting for a place of our own, somewhere to buy rather than rent, a proper home with two bedrooms, maybe three if we could afford it. I told my parents the big news over Sunday lunch. My father placed his knife and fork on the side of his plate and fixed me with a flat stare.
“I need to meet this man. Get him down.”
I met my father’s eyes. He smiled.
I’d already met his mum and dad. Now Jamie had to meet mine.
***
My father and Jamie got on. Over lunch they drank Pearl River wine while my father told Jamie all about the superlative bids made for Ming Dynasty porcelain at auction. Later they stood outside, arms crossed across their chests, and discussed the comparative merits of their cars. Meanwhile my mother and I sat at the kitchen table trying to decipher a message somebody had posted a few days before on findlaika. I read it aloud for the thousandth time.
I see 1998 en picardie ilisabat et gentille Jabir.
“Clearly whoever sent it doesn’t speak much English,” I said. “The best I can make out is that somebody thinks they saw her in Ilisabat, in 1998. The problem is there’s nowhere in Picardy called Ilisabat, in fact, nowhere in France called Ilisabat. I’ve tried Isles Abat and Isles à Bat, but they don’t exist either. At a push, Gentille could be Gentilly, north of Paris. The police said they’d look into it but not to pin my hopes on anything. They said it could be anywhere French speaking: Monaco, Burundi, Haiti. Guadeloupe.”
“Not this again,” my father said as the two men came back in. “It’s a slow news day, is it? You know all about findlaika, do you, Jamie? Then you’ll know just how much trouble it generates. The tabloids drag up some old story, then some jackass concocts a load of rubbish, and this one, without even telling us, jumps on a plane—”
“Once. I jumped on a plane without telling you once.”
“And buggers off on some wild goose chase halfway round the world.”
“This is the first sighting there’s been for ages, Dad.”
“This isn’t a sighting, Willa. It’s complete gibberish, from which you have apparently extracted that someone claims to have seen her twenty years ago. It’s clearly bollocks. This is just some donkey playing with you, Willa, a bored child. Leave it alone. I’ve told you before, that website of yours doesn’t help with anything. Shut it down. It just upsets you.”
“You’ve got to admit,” Jamie said, “it doesn’t sound very likely.”
“Exactly,” my father said. He gave my boyfriend a slow nod. “Good man, James.”
I shut the laptop.
***
—
At the end of the afternoon my father nodded his approval to me. To Jamie he said, “She’s a good girl, Willa, golden.”
“She is. And we certainly have a lot to look forward to,” Jamie said, beaming in my direction. “I’m thinking maybe a little romantic getaway to Paris, then there’s Christmas. And, fingers crossed, we should be in our own place by the spring.”
“Paris, eh?” My father reached out, shook Jamie’s hand and then held it firmly in his grip. “You and I should take some rounds of golf together. Ping me some dates. I’ll introduce you at my club.”
“Fantastic,” Jamie said. “I’ll do that.” His face was a hearty mix of sincerity and appreciation. He gave the hallway a last look, taking in my father’s collection of china and jade, the oriental rugs, the round mahogany table and silk flowers, the mounted stag’s head on the wall. He shook my father’s hand, and then turned away, rolling his eyes at me behind his back. I had to stop myself from laughing.
I kissed them both goodbye. My mother said, “He’s lovely, darling,” loud enough for everyone to hear. Then she hugged me close, and, with her mouth right next to my ear said, “Don’t rush into anything.”
***
A couple of months later we had a long weekend in Paris, our first trip together overseas. We stayed in a hotel near the Musée d’Orsay and walked everywhere, stopping in tiny cafés for coffee and to pore over guidebooks. We visited the Louvre and Sainte-Chapelle, took a river cruise and had cartoons of our faces drawn by an artist at Montmartre—me all eyes, Jamie all teeth.
We were on the Pont des Arts when I saw my sister walking in the distance, on the pavement below the bridge. I recognized her instantly—her dark hair, the shape of her back, the fast gait of her walk. One person, in a crowd of thousands, and it was her. She had an orange backpack flung over one shoulder, and she was moving at a good pace through the crowd. I watched her for a second, then dropped Jamie’s hand and plummeted down the flights of stone steps to the bank below. I didn’t have direct sight of her anymore, but I knew the direction in which she was going. Above me, I could hear Jamie shouting my name from the bridge. There were people, so many people, too many. I shouted, “Laika.”
I hurtled along the bank, pushing through or darting around tourists grouped like slow-moving ships. But she was gone. I couldn’t spot the orange backpack anywhere. It was like she’d vanished into thin air.
I stopped and turned, spinning on the spot, looking in every direction, back into the mass of bodies I’d just passed, into the crowds up ahead, at the upper embankment, at the strangers sitting at the tables dotted along the pavement. My heart was thudding, my vision blurred with tears.
By the time Jamie caught up with me, he was panting heavily. He took my arm and turned me toward him. I could see myself reflected in his sunglasses, my eyes wild. He pulled me close and wrapped his arms around my shoulders.
